The Drugs Don't Work
by rumandmoney
Summary: Sherlock's drug years and how Lestrade helped. Based on the song The Drug's Don't Work - The Verve. Warnings: eventual non-graphic slash, drug use and swearing.
1. Chapter 1

I do not own these lyrics, the band, the characters, the show nor the novel. These are things that sadden me.

Use of drugs, slight slash if you squint.

You'll also have to turn a blind eye to the deductions. God love Sir Conan Doyle and how he managed, because I can't write two.

Now, onwards and enjoy, hopefully :)

* * *

><p><em><strong>All this talk of getting old<br>It's getting me down my love**_

Sherlock had never truly planned on growing old. Not since he was about 6 years old and landed in hospital after falling out of a tree. Mummy had been upset and Mycroft had just been annoyed at his idiotic antics.

He had ended up with just a broken arm, which was pure luck on Sherlock's behalf_._

Mummy had been angry, after all, why had Sherlock been up in the tree in the first place?

(_Experimentation_, he had replied. Mummy had tutted and frowned, but no one could miss that small dash of pride gleaming behind her grey eyes).

Mycroft was still annoyed upon returning home.

"You'll die young, you know," he had muttered over a quiet supper of soup and soda bread that evening.

Sherlock wasn't quite sure what he had said in retaliation to that. Probably something smart-arsed but, ultimately, idiotic and childish.

The words, however, lingered in his head for years to come. When he first let the needle puncture the skin for a moment he could hearthose wordsonly, amplified, rattling around his skull. They were removed as quickly as he depressed the plunger. They were forgotten completely as the drug hit his system.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Like a cat in a bag, waiting to drown<br>This time I'm comin' down**_

He was tired.

God, he was so fucking tired.

His skull was splitting open, it truly was, there was no exaggeration in such a statement. Some stupid bastard had left the curtain open (_Jimmy_, his brain supplied, albeit reluctantly), and someone beside him was shuffling on the dirty, greasy mattress.

His mouth was full of cotton wool, his lips cracked and his heart was fluttering like a hummingbird in a cage. Said hummingbird was probably also on something.

He couldn't sleep. Nor could he stay awake. He regretted not taking the benzo's, like he was offered (_to stop the comedown,_ they had whispered in his ear, but then he had felt good, surely nothing, not even the comedown, was going to ruin that?). He wished he had a few Valium rattling around (like the ones Mummy used to take, after he had that 'episode' aged fourteen).

Or alcohol. Wasn't it Sara that had recommended alcohol? Sara didn't know what she was on about half the time though. Alcohol would also involve movement, something which Sherlock wasn't quite sure he could manage at this current moment in time.

His muscles ached and twitched.

He tried to roll onto his side (_vomit induced asphyxiation _floated around his head) but his face was on fire, but his body was cold. He was shaking, sweet Lord, his hands would never stop trembling at this rate, and the hummingbird was determined to be free.

Why was he so cold? He tried to get up. For what, he wasn't quite sure, but he'd figure that out when he reached that bridge, arms straining despite his lack of excess weight(_drugs before food, the rest was just transport after all)_. The room was dim; some squat near Bromley Common. Bodies was laid out on the floor with a few, most likely infested, mattresses and old sofa cushions providing a bed for some of them. Sara was slouched in the corner, eyes open and glazed over, crusted blood on her upper lip. She raised her eyes up to Sherlock but he saw no sign of recognition in them. Her head was thrown back onto the stained wall, the early morning street-light illuminating her face through the filthy window, casting a sodium glow.

He couldn't hold himself up, like a child learning to walk all over again; his legs simply weren't strong enough. He managed to get out the door and into, if it was possible, the even grimier hallway. There was a couple entangled on the staircase, and he passed them carefully as to not trip, for fear on landing on the used needles that littered the stair wells (_this was long before he gave up all regard for clean needles, clean drugs, long before desperation would let him use a needle that had been used 7 times previously, because it was quicker and it was so God damn bloody necessary)._

He almost made it down the stairs, but his head was spinning and the walls were moving, never mind the stairs. He grasped harder at the wall, but it provided no grip, long fingers ghosting uselessly against the crumbling concrete.

His legs gave out on the third last step, sending him crashing into the stair well.

Perhaps he shouldn't have bought that 8-ball last night.

Perhaps Mycroft was right. Maybe he would die young, he certainly _felt _like he was dying now.

But at least the world was no longer spinning. It was, instead, black.

* * *

><p><em><strong>And I hope you're thinking of me<br>As you lay down on your side**_

He met Lestrade long after he stopped worrying about hygienic use of needles. Hygienic use of anything, really. His inky, curly hair was matted, his t-shirt old and far too large for the skeletal frame that occupied it. He was well aware of the fact he hadn't showered for a long time, bar quick showers in The Passage beside Victoria Station. They had offered him help many a time, but as much as he, deep down, wanted there help, he sure as hell didn't want to admit to it. He also feared that Mycroft would interfere and there was no way, after all these years, he was going to accept Mycroft's offers of money and lavish homes.

It had all started with Sara.

Found dead in some old house in Battersea. The police had seen the marks on her arm, collapsed veins and put the whole thing down as a simple junkie OD. Nothing exciting, nothing new, nothing anything at all strange with the entire incident.

Except the cocaine had been injected. Sherlock was one of the few people that injected cocaine (_7% solution; snorting was just so undignified). _Sara most certainly did not inject cocaine, it was too fiddly, to painstakingly slow (_even if the high did hit like a freight train). _The post-mortem only backed up the police's belief. Why would they know better? No one would.

Sherlock, however, did. The drugs had been forced into her, she had been robbed (_Sara had started making a bit of money in dealing, carried it around in her bra, but how were the police to know that?) _and left for dead. Simple.

In the end he managed to track down a grey haired DI working at Scotland Yard, after days of waiting outside. He followed him into a small greasy spoon on Strutton Ground. Waiting outside until he had ordered his coffee and bagel, Sherlock took his chance to pounce when the waitress had left, smiling a yellowed smile.

Flopping down, boneless, into the small plastic chair with its worn seat and foam padding poking out the edge, the grey haired detective glanced up, eyes darting around the almost empty café, questioning why Sherlock had chosen to sit at that particular table.

"You're wrong," declared Sherlock, cutting straight to the chase.

The man frowned.

"Um, sorry, what?"

"Sara Crewlins didn't die from a drug over-dose. She was attacked, drugged and robbed by a man, probably about 5"9 in height. Not a homeless man, I'd have heard if it was. Sara didn't inject drugs yet the body showed puncture marks, in the vein, neat. Not something long-term junkies, which she was, tend to go for. The attacker isn't a drug user. The bruising, if you look at the right ones, back this up. She bruised easily; lack of vitamin K does that, but there was, most likely, bruising along the sides of the torso where she had been grabbed from behind. She was already on drugs by that time, or else she would have noticed. The extra morphine and cocaine mix in her system pushed her over the edge. Robbery gone wrong. Simple."

The man stared at him for a long time, eyes narrowing as he took in the brunette's tattered appearance.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked at last.

"Mycroft Holmes. You're Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, if the papers are correct, they so rarely are," he retorted. He had spent several days after Sara's death searching through old papers until he became almost certain that the man he was stalking, the lack of better word, was indeed Gregory Lestrade.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, we do appreciate the public's interest in our cases, but I'm afraid that's all we can do. Appreciate."

"You don't think I'm right, do you? I am. Go back to your office, recheck the evidence. You will find proof."

"And you know this, how?"

"The same way I know you have a slight drinking problem by the condition of your shirt, and that your wife is cheating on you. Milk-man too, so cliché, by your wedding ring."

"Right, well, I think we've spoken enough Mr. Holmes, if you'll excuse me," he pardoned himself, scraping back the cheap chair on the tacky linoleum floor.

"Sara was a friend of mine. I would be most disappointed if you did not even look into the matter once more, out of pride."

Lestrade stopped, his hands resting on the back of his chair.

"I am terribly sorry for your loss, but like I said, we cannot take advice from amateurs."

With that he left, leaving Sherlock with the coffee and bagel he ordered. Devouring it, he was grateful the café required you to pay when you ordered.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Now the drugs don't work<br>They just make you worse  
>But I know I'll see your face again<strong>_

It was 5 weeks after their first meeting when Sherlock and Lestrade met for the second time.

"Mycroft, isn't it?" Lestrade had called over to him as Sherlock stood on the border of the crime scene (_young woman, murdered, the fiancé was the suspect, but it was the sister. The locket made it so clear, even to his drug-addled mind)._

"Lestrade," Sherlock responded, squinting up into the glare of the sun-light. He was well aware of the sight he made. He had fallen again, for reasons he couldn't clearly remember (_remembering anything clearly has become a challenge), _leaving a gash across the side of his forehead. His hair was growing far too long, he would get it cut on his next visit to The Passage, and he hadn't showered in a long time. He needed a shave and a clean change of clothes, his log coat was no protection against the cold and damp. He hadn't found his way back to the squat last night so he resorted to sleeping it off on a park bench.

"What brings you here?"

"Curiosity. A loathing of the police's stupidity. Pick whatever option you prefer."

"You were right, last time. I tried to contact you, but it's hard to do with a fake name, isn't it?"

"It's not fake."

"So you do live in Mayfield then? Must say, comes as a bit of a surprise. Don't get many drug addicts like yourself that can hold down the rent of a Mayfair penthouse."

"I work extraordinarily hard," Sherlock bit back.

"Fine, I don't need your real name, if you don't want to give it to me. I just wanted to thank you."

Sherlock hummed in agreement, planting his glare back onto the crime scene.

"Any ideas?" Lestrade ventured after a few moments of tense silence.

"Plenty. Only one that fits. You've noticed the locket, I assume?"

Lestrade nodded, hands clasped behind his back.

"It was her mother's, left to her daughter in the will. The rest of the jewellery was stolen, bar the locket. So someone didn't want to steal the locket, not because it was worthless, because it's most certainly worth quite a lot. So someone didn't want to take it for another reason. Sentimental reasons. Someone with a connection to both the mother and the daughter. A sister, jealous of the victim, most likely due to the upcoming wedding, but it's hard to tell without more information. The sister left the locket; couldn't bring herself to take it from the body. She had doubts about the killing; she knew it was wrong but she was desperate for the woman to be dead. She tried to cover it up as a robbery gone pear-shaped, even stole the change from her pockets, but not the locket."

"So, the fiancé is in the clear and the sister murdered her?"

"Precisely."

Lestrade watched him for a long moment, before the corners of his lips turned up.

"You're correct."

"You knew?"

"Course I did. Wasn't the hardest problem. Let's say, 'Mr. Holmes'," Sherlock chose to ignore the implied doubt regarding his name, "that, hypothetically, if I were to want your, shall we call it assistance? If I were to want your assistance, where would I be able to find you?"

Sherlock paused to study the detective. He didn't seem to be mocking him, his offer seemed genuine.

"The Passage, they'll be able to contact me."

"The homeless centre next to Victoria Station?" There was no pity in Lestrade's voice, something that Sherlock felt inexplicable relief for.

"Yes."

"Great, well then, Mr. Holmes, perhaps I'll get in contact with you some day." Lestrade said, turning around to duck back under the police tape.

"Wait!"

The detective spun around on his heels, a questioning look plastered across his tired face (_he confronted his wife about the affair then)._

"It's Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

The other man grinned, a full, bright smile. One that Sherlock decided there and then he wanted to see more often.

"I'll be in contact then, Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Now the drugs don't work<br>They just make you worse  
>But I know I'll see your face again<strong>_

It was a busy morning at The Passage. The tables were cramped and the smell of body odour hanged undeniably in the air.

He had turned up earlier, remnants of a hangover thrumming in his skull. Lestrade had told him to be at The Passage this morning, to give assistance on the latest case. He had shot up _just_ enough cocaine to give him that pleasant buzz that he so desperately relied on these days.

He had showered, shaved, cut his hair and washed his clothes _(making sure the sleeves were long enough to cover the track marks). _He was sitting in the crowded dining room, hunched over a metal bowl of some kind of porridge concoction, when Lestrade appeared, seemingly out of thin air, placing a heavy hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock started, glaring up at the man.

Lestrade looked Sherlock up and down approvingly, taking in the neater appearance.

"You look better, not fantastic, but better Holmes," Lestrade finally said, starting to make his way back outside.

"Glad to hear you approve," Sherlock's tone was sarcastic, biting even, but he was somewhat pleased that Lestrade had noticed.

"Where did you sleep last night?" He asked once they were stood on the pavement outside on the terracotta building, looming impressively and importantly above them.

"The Ritz," Sherlock replied, not willing to admit that he had ended up falling asleep in Victoria Station's toilets.

"Mm, forgot you worked so incredibly hard," joked Lestrade, paraphrasing Sherlock's earlier comment.

That was where it began, the career of Sherlock Holmes the Consulting Detective. A lot of things begun that day, including Sherlock realising that Lestrade wasn't such as idiot after all _(well, he had asked Sherlock for his help, which was an improvement)._

Lestrade had asked for Sherlock's opinion of a particularly brutal triple homicide, which ended up in Sherlock successfully proving the main suspect had, in fact, been house-breaking on the other side of the city.

Sherlock had met the rest of Lestrade's core team, as small as it was. It consisted of the unlikeable forensic scientist named Anderson, and young sergeant that had potential, should she be willing to exploit it, named Donovan. That was a beginning of a mutual dislike from all parties.

It was also, although he didn't realise it at the time, the beginning of a time where Sherlock Holmes did not need drugs to function.

"Look, Sherlock, we appreciate your help, seriously, we do. But I'm getting stick for this already and at the end of the day I, _we,_ cannot have a drug addict working in liaison with the police force. The media would have a field day, Jesus; I can see the headlines now. So if you want to continue this with us, we're gonna need you to sober up, get clean. We can provide the treatment, keep it tidy and in order and safe. No need for you to go cold turkey in some dingy squat. We'll be able to start paying you, fees for your help, it'll all be above board, none of these messing around nonsense," Lestrade had said, and Sherlock felt sick to note the look of pity and sympathy was now so painfully evident in his eyes that it practically screamed.

Lestrade mistook his silence for thought, rather than disgust, and he pressed his address, scrawled in his illegible script onto the back of an old cereal box, into his calloused palm.

Sherlock had said nothing, only scoffed in response, leaving Lestrade alone as he weaved his way through the crowds of Oxford Street. But he never did throw that address away.

* * *

><p><em><strong>But I know I'm on a losing streak<br>'Cause I passed down my old street  
>And if you wanna show, then just let me know<br>And I'll sing in your ear again**_

Lestrade hadn't contacted him for 3 weeks.

His head hurt, it was a bad drug. Cut with something that could only be poison. Needles had been scarce, so he ended up snorting lines, how many, he lost count. It wasn't particularly hard these days.

For a while, it was good. That shimmery feeling right behind his eyes that he so loved.

Then it hit him, the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. He darted to the small bathroom, ignoring the young girl that was tapping air bubbles out of a hypodermic needle _(ridiculous, if air bubbles could kill you then all junkies would be dead)._

He leaned his head over the toilet bowl, retching, bringing up everything in his stomach. Half a bottle of vodka, in all honesty. He hadn't thought about even buying food in the last few days. He lived off a diet of cigarettes, alcohol, coffee and drugs.

He lifted his head of its resting place on the toilet seat _(he tried his bets to not imagine what was on the seat). _

Water, he thought. Water would help.

He made his way shakily over to the sink, ducking his head under the tap and gulping it down.

His heart was beginning to hammer in his chest, so loud he could almost swear he could hear it.

The water refused to stay down and he collapsed back over the bowl, heaving.

It was when he saw blood he began to panic.

_Lestrade._

He darted up, almost collapsing in the process. Skipping down the staircase, keeping a tight grip on the banister at all times. He almost fell out the front door, his arm wrapped tightly around his stomach in some childish hope that it would stop the nausea.

He made his way shakily over to the nearest telephone box. It stank of piss, windows smashed in. Someone had pasted up flyers for call-girls and sex phone lines.

He scrambled in his back pocket for Lestrade's phone number, on the now tattered piece of card.

It was only due to luck he remembered the reverse dialling code from his teenage years, and it was only due to Lestrade's day off work that Lestrade even answered.

"Hullo?"

"Lestrade, it's me, Sherlock. I need help," his voice was panicky now, shaky and broken and he was sure Lestrade could hear that. He let the phone dangle loose as to vomit onto the floor, glittering with smashed glass.

"You still there? Sherlock?" came Lestrade's disembodied voice from the receiver.

Sherlock grabbed the phone back up.

"I'm here, I'm here. Sorry."

"Where are you Sherlock?"

"Dorset Lane, Lambeth."

"Do you need an ambulance?"

Sherlock didn't know, but even if he did, he would refuse to be hospitalised. Mycroft would inevitably find out and Christ, Sherlock could imagine his smug face even through the haze of nausea and panic.

"No, no, I just need you."

There was a pause on the other line.

"Okay, I've got an ETA of about 13 minutes. Is that okay?"

"Yes, yes. Sorry. Thank you." And with that Sherlock hung up, collapsing down, narrowly missing the mix of vomit and glass. Bowing his head between his knees and trying to calm his heartbeat _(tachycardia)_, he prayed to a God he had never believed in that Lestrade would stay true to his word and turn up.

He must have passed out at that point, because he awoke in a bed, an experience that he had not felt in years.

A clean bed, with clean sheets and no stench of piss and vomit stinging in nostrils.

A bucket was propped beside the bed, which Sherlock was grateful for when he rolled over to rid his stomach of its meagre contents once more.

_Lestrade's _his brain provided, memories of the past few hours trickling in again.

The room was clean, sparse of any personal items bar an old quilt thrown onto a wooden chair in the corner. The large window was inched open, filling the room with a pleasant breeze on the summer's night.

In the distance Sherlock noted he could see the golden sun lowering itself down over the city's rooftops, casting a buttery glow over everything.

Groaning, he curled up in a ball. His head ached, his nose was blocked with what he assumed was blood.

Lestrade took this moment to make his presence known.

Creaking open the heavy wooden door, he crept over to the side of Sherlock's bed, crouching down until he was eye-level with the sick man.

"You're awake then," he said, far too cheerily for a man that had been called up on his day off to pick up some homeless man's OD'd body.

Sherlock grunted in response.

"I've made you tea," he informed the brunette, clattering the mug down on the bedside table, "milky, three sugars. You look like you could use them."

Sherlock just burrowed his head further under the duvet.

"I'm glad you called me. I can help you, you know. I'm just sorry it has to be so damned rough for you. But that said, you knew the consequences."

When Sherlock still gave no reply the detective just sighed, straightening himself up and leaving the room in quiet, coming back later on that night to clean out the basin and offer a new cup of tea.

Sherlock both hated and loved that man.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**This isn't a new chapter, sorry! Chapter 2 got taken down, somehow, so I'm just re-uploading. Hopefully will have an update soon, though!**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Now <strong>__**the **__**drugs **__**don't **__**work**_  
><em><strong>They <strong>__**just **__**make **__**you **__**worse**_  
><em><strong>But <strong>__**I **__**know **__**I'll **__**see **__**your **__**face **__**again**_

The following few days were nothing short of nightmarish.

Both Sherlock and Lestrade were well aware of the symptoms that could, and almost inevitable would occur with going cold-turkey _(agitation,__depression,__restlessness,__increased__appetite,__insomnia,__nightmares,__night__terrors,__grogginess,__mood__swings,__fatigue,__generalised__malaise,__paranoia__and__intense__cravings)_ but no amount of written words and online forums could ease Lestrade's frayed nerves and Sherlock's fear when the crash first hit.

Sherlock had yet to leave the bedroom where Lestrade had left him to sleep some of it off so when the young man padded barefoot into the living room around 10pm that evening the silver-haired DI was a bit surprised.

"Are you okay? Didn't expect to see you up and about to be honest," he asked, turning away from the shitty made-for-tv film he was currently engrossed in.

The man looked blearily around the room before letting his eyes settle on Lestrade.

"I don't want to do this. So I'm gonna go now if you'd like to show me the door," he stated, so sure of himself, only the restless jittering of his arms giving awa anything. Lestrade hadn't expected any different.

"I'm afraid I'm not going to do that Sherlock. Instead I'm going to make you a cup of tea and bring you some fresh, clean clothes and you're going to have a shower," he smiled forcefully, pushing himself out of the chair and making his way to the kitchen.

"I said I don't want to do this!" his voice started of as quiet, reserved before reaching and angry, untamed note at the end.

Lestrade ignored him, filling the kettle under the tap and flicking it on. He felt Sherlock creep up behind him.

"Let me go Lestrade."

"No. You either do this here or you do it in a Chelsea police cell."

"Fuck you! I don't need to do fucking anything, you understand? I am fine!" the brunette roared, sending spit flying over the kitchen.

"So why do desperate to leave? Cup of tea, shower, clean clothes, bit of telly. Could be worse, eh?" Lestrade continued, stubbornly meeting the younger man's furious grey eyes. If looks could kill...

He did feel sorry for the man, he truly did, but like he had said, he was a smart bloke. He knew what consequences would be the second he picked up the needle for the first time. His resolve softened a bit when he turned around from fiddling with the kettle to face the man. He looked so young, scared, lost and Jesus H. Christ, Lestrade had never expected to be able to say any of that about the arrogant git.

"What about a fag?" he offered, rooting around in the pocket of his coat that was left on top of the counter. His fingers found a crumpled pack and he pulled out two, handing one to Sherlock and lighting his own.

Sherlock looked unsure for a moment, his hands trembling around the cigarette.

"It'll calm your nerves. I can't give you anything stronger. One, because I don't have any bar a few aspirin and paracetamol and two, I'm not a doctor."

He reached out for Lestrade's lighter, holding the cigarette to the flickering flame before taking a long drag.

His ridiculously long fingers seem to ease in their erratic movements for those for minutes.

It was nearing dawn when Lestrade awoke to check on Sherlock.

He didn't quite know what he expected to find in the spare room. Whatever it was, it was almost certainly not Sherlock Holmes huddled in a corner, drenched in sweat and crying.  
>Lestrade sat down next to the man.<p>

"It's all right, to cry, you know?" he hushed.

Sherlock tried to ignore him, burying his head under his arms although Lestrade noticed the back of his neck was bright red.

He was embarrassed. The silly arse.  
>He put one arm around the man's shoulders, keeping his grip unrelenting even as Sherlock tensed and made small movements as if to get away.<p>

"Cry if you wanna. I promise you I won't think any less of you," he swore, rubbing small circles into Sherlock's shoulder with his thumb.

They stayed like that until Lestrade's arse went numb and Sherlock fell asleep against his arm. He looked so small, so tired and so painfully defenceless just lying there, his greasy hair flopping into his face, that Lestrade couldn't quite bring himself to leave him alone. Not quite yet.

5 weeks later Lestrade took the plunge and asked Sherlock to move out.

"It'll be good for you. We can get you a small bedsit or you could stay in a hostel until you're ready. Beginning of a whole new era," he had attempted, somewhat poorly, to make his case. He didn't particularly want the man leaving, he had gotten used to his presence and was quite happy should such a presence continue. But that particular type of selfishness wouldn't benefit Sherlock. He needed a fresh start, independance and support.

Sherlock didn't reply, just glared at the crossword in front of him. He looked a lot better, dressed in a pair of clean jeans that fit him and a t-shirt that didn't make him look ridiculously skinny. His hair was cut and washed, producing a mass of shiny black curls that Greg had been strangely pleased with, and he was clean shaven and no longer smelled.

"Sherlock, are you even listening to me?"

"Yes, listening just fine. When do you want me gone? Shan't take long to pack."

He sounded huffy now.

"I didn't mean it like that, and you know it! I just think it'd be best for you if you got a place of your own."

The man just hummed.

Two days later and he had left. He had left no address or phone number to which Lestrade could contact him on and the DI hated the lingering thought that haunted him at nights. He's back on the streets, because you asked him to fuck off. It's your fault.

He had gotten through 6 bottles of scotch that week.

_**'Cause **__**baby, **__**ooh, **__**if **__**heaven **__**calls, **__**I'm **__**coming, **__**too**_  
><em><strong>Just <strong>__**like **__**you **__**said, **__**you **__**leave **__**my **__**life, **__**I'm **__**better **__**off **__**dead**_

After his leisurely stay at Lestrade's, moving back into a squat was an unpleasant experience. The drugs were a constant temptation with what seemed like everybody using them.

The squat he was staying in was in Highgate and he had found it by the lightening bolt shaped arrow in the circle that identified squats around the world. It had been gutted which meant the wires had been cut and the plumbing filled with cement. This didn't put off many people and he soon learned to resort to the bathroom in the McDonald's down the road.

A young man, only about 20 years of age, had found Sherlock fascinating.

His name was Dylan, some pompous boy that obviously had enough of his tragic upper-middle class upbringing and had decided to spend his gap year "finding himself" in the poverty that was London. He reminded Sherlock of himself, a bit, but Dylan was idiotic beyond belief and didn't quite know when to shut up.

Dylan also only smoked weed, which was hardly a drug in Sherlock's eyes. He referred to himself as a hardcore addict, to which Sherlock had only nodded to, smirking to himself. He wondered what Lestrade would say to that?_(He__tried__not__to__think__of__Lestrade__but__it__was__an__incredibly__challenging__feat)._

It was a sultry night in London, the air hung heavy as a gaggle of inebriated young women stumbled past him on their way to a taxi rank, giggling and shrieking.

His head hurt. He missed Lestrade. Lestrade didn't miss him.

But Lestrade would help him, because that's the type of man Lestrade was.

He wasn't quite sure what would work best. Muggings were too messy and unpredictable. Road accidents, once again, messy and unpredictable. And as Sherlock ran through this mental list of ways to find Lestrade _(not__to__get__Lestrade's__attention,__because__he__was__not__a__13__year__old__girl__with__a__crush)_ he realised there was only one thing he knew that would work in his favour.

Drugs.

He certainly had no intention of starting back on cocaine_(the__withdrawal__had__been__disgusting__and__pathetic__and__Lestrade__had__been__ashamed__of__him)._

He wanted something that would ease this constant chatter in his head, this constant anxiety and malaise.

An opiate. Opium, most obviously, but this was no longer Victorian England and opium was hard to come by. Heroin was too addictive, the crash too strong to make it worth anything. Fentanyl too potent for a heart weakend by years of drug abuse.  
>Morphine, however, would suit.<p>

It was easy to get the drug, a few words here and there and he had 40mg in tablet form in his pocket.

He went into the bathroom of the club he had bought the drug and weaving his way around the other men, some with women pressed up against the wall _(Classy,__Sherlock__thought,__somewhat__hypocritcally)_ and made his way into a stall.

Kneeling down around the toilet paper strewn across the floor and sodden in urine, he popped two of the pills into his mouth to suck of the coating. Spitting them back into his palm he ground them on the toilet seat using a £2 coin. He rubbed a small amount into his gums, as so it would hit the blood stream faster, before snorting the remainder up scrap of a rolled-up take-away menu he had taken from a chippy earlier.

_**All **__**this **__**talk **__**of **__**getting **__**old**_  
><em><strong>It's <strong>__**getting **__**me **__**down **__**my **__**love**_  
><em><strong>Like <strong>__**a **__**cat **__**in **__**a **__**bag, **__**waiting **__**to **__**drown**_  
><em><strong>This <strong>__**time **__**I'm **__**comin' **__**down**_

Some impatient twat hammered on the door.

"Oi! Some of us want to get in, all ri'?" he yelled.

"Piss off!" Sherlock roared back, pulling out the mobile Lestrade had provided him with before he had left.

Turning it on _(he__had__left__it__switched__off,__as__to__reserve__battery.__Understandably__difficult__to__charge__a__phone__when__one__is__one__of__the__invisible__homeless)._

He fired of a single text to Lestrade.

OUTSIDE BENJY'S NIGHTCLUB. PLEASE COME.  
>-SH<p>

He meandered unsteadily back outside, feeling the heavy feeling sinking into his limbs like he had been warned.

Collapsing down onto the curb, he waited.

Lestrade made his appearance 25 minutes later, disheveled and worried looking.

"What's wrong?" he flustered, dashing over.

Sherlock smiled dopily, throwing an arm around Lestrade and nuzzling into his neck.

"Oh, you're high, aren't you?" Lestrade tried to pull back from Sherlock's embrace, to check his pupils for dilation, for Sherlock had a surprisingly strong grip for someone so stoned.

He breathed in the scent of the older man's hair, ignoring the threats of murder, homicide and insults of idiocy, selfishness and something bizarre and new-fangled called "dip-shitted arse-logic".

This endless ramble of insults and fury pouring from Lestrade paused for a moment when Sherlock whispered into his ear.

"I love you."

No one spoke. Lestrade ignoring it, Sherlock probably not even realising he said.

Lestrade ended up doing what Sherlock predicted. Bundling the younger man into the car and bringing him back home.

_**Now **__**the **__**drugs **__**don't **__**work**_  
><em><strong>They <strong>__**just **__**make **__**you **__**worse**_  
><em><strong>But <strong>__**I **__**know **__**I'll **__**see **__**your **__**face **__**again**_

The following morning was nothing like Sherlock's first day at Lestrade's.

The DI was nothing short of furious, stomping around the flat and doing his damned best to increase the brunette's hangover.

"You're a prick Sherlock. A real bloody, grade-A prick," he yelled when Sherlock made his way into the kitchen

.  
>"I know," he had admitted, refusing to make eye-contact.<p>

"How damned selfish can you get? The shit I got from bringing you into my home, getting you clean, offering to help you buy a flat before you left. Left without even telling me, may I add! And then you think it's fine to text me six weeks later so I can pick up your useless, stoned body off the roadside?" he roared, turning onto Sherlock with anger.

Sherlock hadn't given an answer to that.

"This isn't on, it really isn't. I'm not some Oxfam charity here. I'm just Greg Lestrade, a normal fucking bloke who made friends with some stupid, strung-out junkie!"

Sherlock's head snapped up at that.

"Friends?"

"I'd like to think we were, yeah. But that's not the point is it? You can't just expect me to be on your beck and call 24 bloody 7! That's not how it works! I helped you Sherlock. God knows I tried! But you get a bit bored, so you throw it all down the drain. Oh, but better yet, you phone me! You ask me to come find you, so you can show me what I wasted my time on! After buggering off when I was out one day! That was pretty cool of you Sherlock, real nice in fact!"

Silence fell in the room, so intense that Sherlock could hear the cheap clock that hung on the wall ticking.

Tick-tock.

Tick-tock.

Tick-tock.

Lestrade was standing at the sink, watching Sherlock very carefully, breathing heavily as a result of his recent rage.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock ventured quietly, never lifting his eyes from the floor.

The older man just snorted in cynical laughter.

"No, I am. I don't know why I done what I done. It was, like you said "dip-shitted arse-logic". At least I think it was, I'm not quite sure what that actually is," his feeble attempt at a joke falling flat in the room. "I was just, I dunno. Scared, I think. I couldn't think properly. The drugs had always worked before."

"Why couldn't you think?" Lestrade seemed to have calmed down now, reverting back, just the smallest bit, to the compassionate figure that Sherlock had come to appreciate.

"I said I didn't know!" Sherlock snapped, immediately regretting is as Lestrade's previous anger seemed to ebb his way back in.

"I don't bloody know, sorry," Sherlock attempted again, softer this time, "I'm just...the cocaine. It made everything easier, so much clearer. But now it's gone and nothing is working, my head is numb."

Lestrade looked at him thoughtfully.

"You understand, Sherlock, that depression is a common sign of withdrawal. You should speak to a professional. I'm sure The Passage could put you in contact with someone."

"I don't want a professional, dammit! I want you, Lestrade," Sherlock said, not meaning to, but the words were out there now and he couldn't take them back for fear of upsetting Lestrade _(since__when__had__he__been__afraid__of__upsetting__people?)._

Lestrade sighed, watching Sherlock with sad eyes._(Why__was__he__so__sad?)_

Well, now that the words were out there, he may as well go the whole way. Lestrade would guess either way, eventually, and Sherlock didn't want to be pitied as the guy that had some silly crush.

"I want you Lestrade."

"I know, you just said-"

"You're not listening to me. I don't know how to say this. They're just words, really, aren't they?"

"I don't know what you're on about," Lestrade admitted, and he looked genuine. A small furrow had appeared between his brows.

"What I'm trying to say is..." he broke off again, his hands grasping uselessly in the air for words that couldn't come to him.

"Oh fuck this. I think, at some point, I may have, y'know? Fallen in love. With you."

The room was awkward. No one spoke, no one moved a muscle. Even the clock seemed to had stopped its incessant ticking.

Then Lestrade smiled.

Not a mocking smile, not a fake do-it-to-make-the-nutter-happy smile.

But a proper, genuinely pleased smile.

Sherlock enjoyed that smile.

_**'Cause **__**baby, **__**ooh, **__**if **__**heaven **__**calls, **__**I'm **__**coming, **__**too**_  
><em><strong>Just <strong>__**like **__**you **__**said, **__**you **__**leave **__**my **__**life, **__**I'm **__**better **__**off **__**dead**_  
><em><strong>But<strong>__**if**__**you**__**wanna**__**show,**__**just**__**let**__**me**__**know**_  
><em><strong>And <strong>__**I'll **__**sing **__**in **__**your **__**ear **__**again**_

Things moved a lot quicker, simpler, after that.

Sherlock has easily agreed to move back in with Lestrade. They shared the same bedroom now, same bed even, a new experience for Sherlock_(well,__sharing__beds__with__snoring,__sweating__strangers__on__the__floor__of__some__run__down__council__flat__in__Bromley__didn't__exactly__count,__did__it?)_ and not entirely unpleasant.

Waking up beside Lestrade was even better. Sherlock soon learned that he probably wasn't designed to sleep through the night so he spent the majority of his waking hours in bed watching Lestrade sleep instead. He thought this was probably intensely creepy but the silver-haired man never seemed to mind when he woke up so see Sherlock staring down at him. Instead he just smiled, reaching up for Sherlock's neck and dragging him down to curl around him, falling back asleep.

They fell into a quiet routine. Sherlock brought Lestrade coffee and toast in the morning _(should__Sherlock__be__awake.__If__not,__he__lied__in)_.

Lestrade then left for work at around 7am, as to skip the rush hour.

Sherlock lounged around the house if there were no cases and if there were cases Lestrade text him. They never let on that they were a couple, the world wasn't clear of homophobic behavior quite yet, so Sherlock always took a taxi rather than the police car _(a__habit__that__would__linger__for__years__to__come)_.

Sally knew, Sherlock was sure, but she never said anything either disapproving or congratulatory.

Sherlock preferred it that way.

If there was no case then Lestrade text at regular intervals to make sure Sherlock hadn't died or something just as melodramatic.

Lestrade arrived home at 6pm most nights, with take-away _(Lestrade__was__an__abysmal__cook__and__Sherlock__didn't__quite__want__to,__even__if__it__would__break__up__the__day)._

They sat in front of the television some nights, other nights were spent with Sherlock looking into adult classes at his level and his own studies and Lestrade thumbing through sensationalist literature, and on a really bad night, checking over paperwork.  
>Lestrade went to bed at 11pm, Sherlock at 1am.<p>

Sometimes they slept.

They awoke at 5.30am and were back to square one.

After six months of sobriety for Sherlock and co-habitation with Lestrade a parcel arrived for the brunette.

An expensive Stradavarius violin _(retail__price?__Anything__up__to__£2,500)_ with a note attached _(royal__blue__ink,__calligraphic__script__and__Holmes'__family__crest__of__the__blue__and__white__stripes__with__the__red__circle__backed__on__a__white__square__embossed__upon__the__top_). It read:

_I'm__proud__of__you,__mon__petite__frere._  
><em>-M.<em>

That night was the first night Lestrade had heard Sherlock play.


End file.
